


Divine Upper Reaches

by Persisia



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Cutting, M/M, Restraints, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persisia/pseuds/Persisia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heyo, I'm back again with these two.  They make for a beautiful dynamic, that's for sure.  Well... as beautiful as any old bruise.  Anyway, it's just a bit of sensory play, as usual.  It's a bit more explicit than the last one.  I got adventurous, but I figured that wouldn't be a problem.  It was written to a couple different songs, most notably Mysterons by Portishead.  As usual, the work is titled after the song that inspired it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Divine Upper Reaches

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo, I'm back again with these two. They make for a beautiful dynamic, that's for sure. Well... as beautiful as any old bruise. Anyway, it's just a bit of sensory play, as usual. It's a bit more explicit than the last one. I got adventurous, but I figured that wouldn't be a problem. It was written to a couple different songs, most notably Mysterons by Portishead. As usual, the work is titled after the song that inspired it.

It's the first time he's tried this completely sober, the very first time he's dared. But he wants Motochika. He wants him oh, so badly. However, that's a secret he'll take with him to the grave and beyond. This time, he's going to test boundaries, and cross their breadth. He wants that pirate to whimper and writhe and he wants to see it in his eyes. He wants to feel the frustration and desire bolting off of Motochika in rolling, churning waves, and he wants to drown in it before he can let it consume him. And he wants his mind to be crystal clear so he can savor every last drop, every last breath, every last sound.

He starts by tying limbs with cruel tightness, a vicious, biting grip to hold back the tempest he knows he can reliably predict-- after all, they have played this game more than couple times before, and each time, they only seem to grow more passionate. They're almost like adventurers becoming more confident to roam their chosen lands, the more of it they explore. But not this time. Motonari won't let any more of himself be revealed. His leaves won't fall, his flowers won't bloom, his mountains won't erupt. There will be no storm until he has completely charted Motochika's every twist and turn.

He starts by tying limbs. Motochika insists it won't do any good. Motonari knows better.  The ropes are more a mental barrier he knows will be harder to surmount if he can play this just right until the very end.

"You are not to say a word," he purrs in a tone completely contrary to his mostly blank facial features, checking the ties again for the last time. He makes sure to brush against sensitive areas and lets his breath skim across already anticipating flesh.

"I'll talk if I wanna talk," comes the reply. And truth be told, there would have been more words of defiance, if the pirate didn't have a mouthful of interrupting authority. Because Motonari will not be making negotiations, and if he has to make it impossible for Motochika to speak, he will. He's almost surprised he's been allowed to employ ropes and restraints. But he bets Motochika is curious-- and why shouldn't he be?  Because after Motonari has surrendered control of these situations every time, he demands the right to regain a sense of pride, some semblance of control and superiority. Of course, they both know he'll let Motochika do as he pleases, once he has had his own fun-- he loves it, after all. He loves to surrender himself, at least in this, and let the other man's will wash over him fiercely.  He loves watching the pirate fight a desperate battle with asphyxiating need and the desire to keep Motonari comfortable, to keep him wanting more.

But really, he doesn't need such sweet gestures. The heartbreakingly gentle way the pirate touches him after they've expended themselves, as if he is fragile and worn from such activities, is sickening, though he can't say he doesn't appreciate or like it. They are more than that, though. There's something terribly alluring about how rough Motochika becomes in his desire. But that isn't satisfactory. Motonari craves something a little more exact, more exquisite, more sharp. And he plans to show this man exactly what he wants.

Their lips remain attracted together, the heat already growing static between them. Mouri takes the pirate's bottom lip between his teeth, rolling it gently even as he slicks his tongue across the softly bulging flesh. He seats himself right on Motochika's leg, dragging sharpened fingernails down his newly appointed furniture's torso. He's careful not to do it too roughly just yet, but he doesn't spare much pressure-- until he suddenly lets up and trails his fingers like gossamer, hardly at all.  The amount of force he applies varies, switching between an almost cruel, forceful scraping to sweet caresses.  He has to be careful to be slow, practical, creative, but that's no issue at all.  He continues to draw biting red marks into Motochika's chest, forcing aggressive kisses because he so loves the taste, but he swears he won't always begin in this way.  

He just wants to keep the brute's obnoxious mouth shut for a while.

Slowly, slowly, he eases his lips away, bringing them to Motochika's ear.  His hands cease dragging lightly or harshly or at all, and begin to massage the other's chest instead.  And he whispers in a dark, breathy tone, "Not a  _word,_  Chōsokabe.  Show me you can handle it, hm?"  The word is accented with a firm pressing near the pirate's groin and a sweet, thoughtful kiss to the cheek.  He isn't the best with words not meant for destruction or deceit, but as he stands up and takes a couple steps away, the look on his face is beautiful and terrifying.   

He carefully begins to peel away his clothing, slowly, slowly-- he reveals himself in sections, twisting in the sunlight that filters in through mostly blocked windows.  Any reservations he may have once had are gone; this is Motochika he stands before, and he must look confident and in-control.  He wonders if he is moving  _too_ slowly, but dismisses the thought as he carefully piles his shed trappings off to the side.  The point of this, after all, is to see how long he can get away with toying around-- if things were heating up already, he would be disappointed, indeed, and the warmth of anticipation should be tinder and kindling aplenty.  After all, the end is a promised reward that he wouldn't dream of withholding because he, too, so desires it.

He takes careful, deliberate steps to bring himself behind Motochika and wraps his arms around the man's shoulders in a surprisingly loving manner.  He brings his lips back to Motochika's ear, but this time, he is silent; instead, he chooses to kiss and nibble gently.  Between his fingers is a tiny blade he had extracted subtly from his discarded clothes, and now, he presses it languidly into the pirate's chest.  

He feels Motochika jump and tense at the sudden biting of cold metal, but he doesn't say a thing; all for the best, of course.  It's all the permission Motonari needs to continue-- and continue he does, drawing intricate patterns of sanguine even as he softly, sweetly delivers kisses across both sides of Motochika's neck, along his jawline and earlobes, and even slipping back into passionate osculations to the lips.  The way the larger man's breath hitches with each new stroke is so, so delicious, and Mōri slides himself back around to sit on the other leg, deliberately running his tongue in long stretches over the cuts-- sometimes flicking the tip over hardened flesh.

He kisses Motochika again, having saved as much of his blood on his tongue and lips as he could.  One hand wanders down, toying with the band at the top of the pirate's pants.  He slips fingers in to sensually caress parted thighs, then removes his hand to trace the only slightly closed seams inflamed across the demon's chest, only to bring it back down and push the entire hand beneath folds of cloth.  He is being gentle-- the things he wants to do are far worse than pretty little ribbon-cuts across the expanse of Motochika's exposed chest.  But today, he won't go that far.  

Today, he merely slithers off the pirate's leg and sits calmly between them both, even as he begins tugging pants down.  He is as a statue of immortalized patience; only if one searches his cold, burning eyes will they see the depths of desire and excitement.  Motochika isn't as affected, but that would change soon enough.  With pants lowered, Mōri brandishes the blade again-- but changes his mind, for the shifting the pirate suddenly makes discourages him.  Yes, yes-- perhaps any laceration in this area would not be a good idea.

He sets the thing down, a twisted smile forming ever so slightly at how it gleams, red still slicked on the edges.  The same expression is turned on Motochika, and he slowly pushes himself upward, bodies plastered together, for another deep kiss.  The pirate hisses quietly, tensely at the stinging of the friction on his wounds, and it takes more restraint than it should for the child of the sun not to do it again.  

He hums against flushed flesh as he lays a pattern of kisses, licks and little sucks down the pirate's front.  He pays special attention to each nipple, biting softly and running his tongue over them.  The red ribbon lacing across Motochika's chest is a beautiful, exact pattern, and Motonari wishes he could have printed it across the entire body.  And if this were anyone else, for any other reason, he just might have.  He runs his fingers, fingertips, fingernails lightly over the patterns even as he ravishes attention upon other places.  He wonders if his obvious gratification over his work is the thing that keeps Motochika from making him stop, making him submit to some other, more purely sexual treatment.

Where he has decided not to use the blade, he runs his fingernails-- languid, lazy over inner thighs; is there much difference?  His talons are sharp, and they leave lasting marks despite not ever breaking skin.  He knows how to make it rush even faster-- after a claw-mark has been laid, he moistens it with his tongue and blows upon it before it can be soothed, making his mouth wider to release hotter breath.  As always, he brushes occasionally against that which stands beside him, occasionally getting small reactions out of Motochika, until his captor finally relents and turns his attention fully upon the thing with such a gleam in his eye, one might be afraid or enraptured or lost.  

He regards it critically for a moment, as if it is a puzzle, before briefly wetting his fingers in his mouth and grasping it lightly between them.  He brings his lips to the base and trails them ever so slightly south, even as his fingers travel up, dancing along the shaft with tapping, tap tap tap tap taptap tap tap tap taptaptap tap. and little squeezes.  He takes tiny patches of skin into his mouth, nibbling and sucking gently.  After a moment, he switches, nibbling his way up the length of the shaft and running the underside back down, only to drag his tongue, flattened, all the way back up.  

He  s l o w l y , s  l  o  w  l  y  ,  s   l   o   w  l   y    circled the tip of his tongue over the head, dipping into the slit now and then, and only now does he start eliciting the reactions he so wishes from Motochika-- but oh, how strong they are.  He massages and kneads the testicles as he allows only the very tip to pass his lips, his tongue still circling rhythmically.  He pauses only to steal another full kiss from the restrained one, and then resumes without missing a beat.  This is as dipping a quill into ink-- he is restoring the lost moisture from his mouth by taking from Motochika in order to minimize the time he must stop.  

He accepts a little more of the shaft into his mouth, his hands moving away to caress the pirate's thighs again.  He begins to move his head, slowly pushing more of Motochika into his mouth before pulling him out, only to accept even more in.  There is a point where he stops increasing ground and instead increases pace, just a little, one hand returning to the shaft and the other reappearing to work the tenderness below.  

These are things that accomplish his goals, and so he will do them.  He just needs to be sure to discover other things to perform in due time.  For now, he merely continues his current motions, the stretch of Motochika's pants pulled across his knees where he sits between legs.  He closes his eyes for a moment, maps in his mind spanning like exact replicas of the marks on the pirate's chest-- maps of what he remembers as success and failure, and what he has yet to try. 

He's suddenly not feeling very creative.

There's no need to fix what has yet to break, and the way Motochika strains at the relatively weak, if tight, bonds on his wrists and ankles tell him that the only thing that will be breaking is rope, not method.  He is anticipating the snap, but he doesn't show it-- merely continues to suck, or to bite so, so gently around these areas.  It's when he feels hands resting on his head, then hands moving his head away, that he knows there is a pin to be placed on the map.  Motochika is already trembling so deliciously as he kicks his pants from his ankles, and Motonari has time enough only to wipe the wet and smirk from his lips before stretching himself out over the bed nearby.  

He's only a little miffed at the sounds of liquid-- he  _did_  make sure to leave enough of his saliva, or so he thought, but perhaps there are some things he is underestimating.  Ah, well, more won't hurt, but less might.  He fixes Motochika with deep, dark, taunting eyes that burn and tear right into him, for even though this part is something like customary, he absolutely  _dares_  him to light the place ablaze.  He can already smell the match being struck in the way Motochika glares right back, and when he feels himself being invaded, there's something so, so astoundingly wonderful about it, as though they couldn't be anywhere else or with anyone else.  No matter if they did do these things with another, these moments were just for them, and with the fullness in all of his spaces, Motonari feels a sort of gratification he will never be able to replicate.

It's an unusual gesture for him, but he wraps his arms around Motochika's neck to pull him closer, and he kisses him again-- deep, full, passionate.  Tiny noises rip from his throat, and he does not try to hide his pure, unbridled enjoyment.  He claws at the pirate's back, but the marks will never match those on the front, those that press against the smaller form and in such a state bring more pleasure than pain.  

And Motonari is lost at sea, feeling the waves rock and slam into him harder and harder, holding him fast and offering no reprieve.  He presses his forehead into Motochika's shoulder, hissing and whimpering and clenching his jaw to fight the tides.  At last, he just can't take any more and the ocean overtakes him, drowning him in 

white.

And Motochika has learned not to follow too far behind, for it irritates Motonari to continue in this way after he is already spent.  Still, he takes the time to enjoy himself a little more first-- after all, he was played with for so long beforehand, so now it is his turn.  It's as fair a trade as can be expected, and Mōri does everything within his power to grant the illusion that he is still so engaged, because it is so, so exquisite to see Motochika fall off the edge of  _anything_ \-- and really, he would much rather be involved.

And when at last he does, Motonari basks in every fragile moment, every muscle twitch, every drop from both of their bodies.  He feels the hand pressed to the side of his face, the lips pressed to his forehead, and wonders fleetingly why he would want this to change.  Motochika pulls away from him just long enough to reposition himself on his side and grab a nearby cloth before dragging Motonari closer to him. 

The tactician has a hundred remarks he could spit out right now, but he doesn't.  He just keeps his mouth shut and allows Motochika to clean them both of their messes.  When that task is through, they move closer together, and though Motonari is careful not to rub against the cuts, they hold each other tight and revel in the warmth and companionable quiet.

And that is the way they remain.


End file.
